


her face says freedom

by somnambulants



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/F, Happy Ending, bit of a Cordelia character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16513829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnambulants/pseuds/somnambulants
Summary: Somehow, the world goes on.A series of moments set post-apocalypse.





	her face says freedom

The war is over.

The warlocks are gone. The antichrist is dead. The world lives on.

At the very least, Cordelia is content that she’ll leave this world knowing she’s made it as safe as possible for the coven to continue on without her. 

(i)

Coming home, _after_ , is like a breath of fresh air. She can feel the strength returning to her the second the academy comes into view.

Misty leans into her as they step out of the car, looking up at the house with wide eyes. 

From behind them, Madison slams the car door shut, grabbing her luggage. 

“Thank god we’re finally here,” she hears her say to Zoe. “I thought I was gonna have to send myself back to hell to get the bitch next to me to shut up.”

“Oh my god,” Queenie says, her voice exasperated as she slides out of the car on the opposite side. “Why don’t _you_ shut up?”

Cordelia lets herself smile at their bickering. 

Home, for her, has always been about people (Myrtle, Hank - on occasion, Fiona) rather than a house.

Still, there’s something about finally coming back to the academy after so long -- with _all_ of them this time – that makes her feel weightless, perhaps for the first time since she’d ascended to supremacy.

(ii)

When she wakes up the next morning, she opens her eyes and stares up at her bedroom ceiling as she waits for now-familiar pain to shoot up her spine. 

It doesn’t come, to her surprise. 

Immediately – and perhaps a little childishly – she attributes it to being far, far away from men with their fragile male egos that fall to pieces at even the sight of a woman. 

(Dealing with that was _more_ than enough to elicit physical pain, she’s certain of that.)

Although the unbearable pain may not be there, there’s still this bone-deep ache all over her body that sets her teeth on edge. 

She closes her eyes again as it reaches her temple and starts to throb, making it difficult to look around her bright, sunlit bedroom without squinting.

In a rare moment of weakness – or delirium -- Fiona had told her what it felt like once. _Death. ,_

__

__

She’d told her about the fatigue that comes first, then the aches and the pain and then finally, the total loss of power. 

Cordelia knows that she’s dying. 

And she’s accepted it, mostly. She just wants a little more time with --

“Miss Cordelia?” Misty peaks around the door into the room. She’s got one hand over her eyes, which are screwed tightly shut beneath it and a cup in her other hand. “Are you decent?”

“Yes,” she says. “You can come in.”

Uncovering her eyes, Misty enters the room, nudging the door open fully. “How are you feelin’?” 

She hovers by the side of the bed as Cordelia heaves herself up to lean back against the headboard. 

“I should be asking you that,” she chastises 

Passing her the cup, Misty worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’ll be fine.”

As she takes a sip of the tea, Cordelia doesn’t miss the quick flicker of doubt on her face before it disappears. It tugs at something inside her sharply. 

She places the cup on the table beside her bed, ignoring the twinge of discomfort that shoots through her upper body as she moves, reaching out to grab her hands in her own.

“You went through something horrific,” she says, and that little pang in her chest as she thinks about Misty, all alone in hell, empathetically agrees. “Nobody expects you to be anything right now.”

Misty’s expression lightens a little bit and she squeezes her hands. “I know,” she says. “Thank you, Miss Cordelia.”

“Cordelia,” Cordelia corrects her gently. “I think it’s probably past time you started calling me that.”

Misty frowns a little. _“Cordelia,”_ she says, testing it and Cordelia’s stomach flips a little at the way it sounds coming out of her mouth; like she thinks it’s something sacred. “That’ll take some getting used to.”

Cordelia picks up the teacup again, giving her a smile. “We have time.”

As she speaks, she pointedly ignores the fact that her arm is shaking so badly that she has to use both hands to support the cup. 

Even still, warm liquid spills over the rim when she tries to bring it to her lips.

The troubled look on Misty’s face indicates that she hasn’t missed it, but she says nothing, instead reaching out to help her steady her hands, wrapping her own around Cordelia’s gently. 

They’re both content to ignore the elephant in the room, sitting uneasily in the corner. 

The reality is: they may have time, in the literal sense, but how much of it does _she_ have left?

 

(iii)

She still doesn’t think it’s quite sunk in yet that Misty is really here. 

Even after months of being attached to her side every waking and sleeping hour, she’s still a little afraid that she’s going to wake up one morning and Misty will be gone again. 

There had been such a long time – _years_ – that she’d been in denial about feeling anything but sadness about the hit the coven took when Misty had failed to return from descensum. 

Then, over time, as the academy had filled with more witches and she finished cleaning up the chaos Fiona had left her with, there had suddenly been a lot less to do and a lot more to think about. 

Namely, Misty. 

Cordelia had spent weeks upon weeks, which had quickly spanned into months, of reading every book she had, of calling every powerful witch she could think of and in the end, she had still found absolutely nothing concrete to help her. 

Once, out of foolish desperation, she had descended into her own hell and tried an incantation that would’ve – _should’ve_ – opened up the entire underworld to her. 

She’d only gotten as far as saying the words, trying to ignore her mother as she spat _“failure, failure, failure –“_ at her over and over again, and then Papa Legba had shown up. 

“Not going to happen, little witch queen,” he’d told her, looking vaguely amused, and with a flick of his finger, she’d been thrust back into the living world. 

After that, she’d picked herself up and managed. She’d become the supreme the coven needed, and she’d done her job. 

Falling in love with Misty had been so quick; so effervescently _easy_ in a way none of her relationships had ever been that she hadn’t even realised what it was until it was too late. 

She’d resigned herself to having to deal with the consequences of that for the rest of her life. 

And then she’d met Michael Langdon. 

(Privately, Cordelia knows deep down that Ariel had been right in his comparison of her to Fiona all those months ago. 

The entire world had collapsed because of that… _thing_ and yet, if she had the power, she knows she wouldn’t go back and undo anything. Not if it meant it would take back every single thing he'd done.

He may have destroyed the world, but Michael had given Misty another chance at life.

Even the prospect of potentially being able to save the lives of billions wasn't worth the sacrifice of taking Misty's away again. 

Cordelia would sooner let them all burn than even entertain the thought.)

(iv)

The third day after they arrive back, they make a trip Cordelia has been dreading and simultaneously anticipating from the second they’d set foot back in New Orleans.

All the tension visibly drains out of Misty’s shoulders when the swamp comes into view and she immediately makes a bee-line straight for the back of the tiny shack.

Cordelia slows down, gritting her teeth as a wave of exhaustion slams into her like a bus. A very big bus. 

When she eventually rounds the corner, she finds Misty, standing smack in the middle of the small plot she’d crafted when she’d lived here and taking in all the flourishing plants covering every square inch with clear confusion on her face. 

“I may have taken a little initiative with the plants," Cordelia tells her, a little sheepishly. "I wanted to make sure there was still something here for when –“ 

_For when you came back._

Feeling silly for the sharp pang the thought sends through her, the words die in her throat. 

Misty’s face still turns soft and sad, as though she’d said it out loud. 

Wordlessly, she grabs her hand and pulls her towards the shack. Both of them step onto the creaky porch and Misty reaches out for the door, which creaks a little as she shoves it open.

With the exception of every surface being covered in cobwebs and a fine layer of dust, the small room is essentially as she'd left it the night she’d fled to the academy.

Cordelia had come here more times than she’d be able to count over the years, grieving for Misty without truly understanding what it was that she was actually mourning: the life she’d lost. 

A life she’d now regained

On one of her visits, she’d picked up one of Misty’s discarded shawls and foreign emotions – _fear, loneliness, desperation_ – had flowed into her so violently that she’d been almost catatonic on the floor for an hour.

After that, she’d been careful not to touch anything. 

Only ever the plants. 

There had been something so fundamentally wrong about watching all of Misty’s hard work wilt and die right in front of her that she hadn’t been able to help herself.

In the present, she tries to hide her flinch when she sees her spot that same shawl on the floor where she’d dropped it all that time ago. 

Misty picks it up, clutching it to her chest. "Can't believe I'm seeing this all again."

“You know that you can stay here,” the words feel like razor blades in Cordelia's throat. “We would all understand if you don’t feel comfortable at the academy.”

Misty pauses, looking around, taking in all the little knick-knacks that Cordelia had ever so carefully left undisturbed with an unreadable expression on her face.

It’s the single longest second of her life, but then Misty shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and stands from where she’d perched on the bed in the corner of the room, a fine layer of dust flying up with her. “This ain’t home. Not anymore.”

 

(v)

Even after two gruesome deaths and two even more grisly resurrections, Myrtle is as ever-present and omniscient as ever. Perhaps even more-so.

Which is why, when Cordelia wakes up one morning with an overwhelming surge of power running through her veins – no pain, no aches, no steady leeching of her life force – she instantly knows that whatever Myrtle's been up to the last few weeks has got to have something to do with it. 

“What have you done?” she demands, as soon as Myrtle opens her bedroom door. “Tell me you didn’t do something completely stupid.”

Myrtle’s brow furrows in a look of perfect confusion, but the slight upward curve of her lips is a dead giveaway as she says: “dearest, you _must_ stop being so melodramatic.”

She then turns back to the Theremin she’d somehow plucked from out of nowhere and starts playing it, effectively ending the conversation.

(vi)

Sometime in the second week after they return to the academy, Cordelia wakes up to an empty bed. 

Misty’s side of the bed is cool when she reaches out to touch the sheets. 

There’s a brief flicker of panic that snakes its way up her spine and makes it hard to breathe before she forcibly reminds herself that there’s nothing to be scared of.

Not anymore, anyway. 

When she makes her way downstairs, she can hear Coco’s voice before she even enters the kitchen. “You see, I’ve almost perfected it. My brain is basically one of those calorie counting apps but _like_ , way better.”

“That’s… amazing,” she hears Misty respond hesitantly. 

She rounds the corner and spots them both standing over near one of the kitchen windows. Neither of them seem to hear her come in. 

Mallory, sitting on one of the counter tops, does however, and smiles at her. 

After beaming at Misty in response to the praise, Coco refocuses her attention, gazing down at one of the potted tomato plants on the windowsill. 

“….300,” she says confidently, after a second.

Still looking a little confused, but interested nonetheless, Misty applauds.

Biting back a smile, Cordelia backs out of the kitchen silently and leaves them all be. 

(vii)

As anyone would expect, Misty has nightmares. 

For months, Cordelia had let her sleep on until she’d woken herself, worried that disturbing her may have more detrimental consequences than letting her sleep. 

Eventually, the sound of Misty’s cries become so agonized – too much for Cordelia to bear to listen to -- that she gives in and shakes her into wakefulness one night. 

“No –” still completely unaware of her surroundings, Misty recoils away from her. “No, please, I don’t want to –”

Carefully, Cordelia pulls back so they’re no longer touching.

“It’s okay,” she says, making sure to keep her voice as quiet and non-threatening as possible. It works; Misty stills and her eyes focus, seeing her for the first time. “It’s just me.”

Immediately, Misty is in her arms. Her heart is beating so quickly, Cordelia can feel it through her shirt. 

“He was there,” Misty blurts out, on the borderline of hyperventilation. “He made me do it again.”

Cordelia tightens her arms around her. 

“You’re safe,” she whispers. Misty buries her face in her neck and she starts to stroke her hair, brushing her fingers through knotted waves. “You’re safe, I promise.”

(Throughout her life, she’s accumulated at least a million regrets spurning from various bad choices, but none of them can even begin to measure up to the all-consuming guilt she still feels for letting Misty do the seven wonders.

She’d just been so _certain_ she was the supreme and that she’d pass all of the tests with flying colours that the alternative hadn’t even occurred to her. 

Well -- not until it was too late. 

Even now, she can remember the scratch of the rug beneath her as she’d gotten to her knees and felt carefully along the floor until her fingers had made contact with Misty’s motionless form.

She remembers holding her in her arms, whispering quiet words of encouragement and hoping against hope that maybe Misty might hear them from wherever she was and return to her. 

Of everything, she most vividly remembers Myrtle’s quiet, almost mournful: _“time’s up”_ from somewhere behind her and then the unbearable weight of her suddenly empty arms. 

They’d had to postpone the rest of the tests for hours until Cordelia had been able to pull herself together enough to be able to carry them out.

In her room, away from the girl’s eyes, Myrtle had held her as she’d cried, stroking her hair the way she’d done whenever Cordelia crept into her room as a child, seeking comfort for one thing or another. 

If she’d just _listened_ when Misty had told her she wasn’t ready, she wonders how differently this would all have ended up.)

Now, the room is completely silent around them, save for the sound of Misty’s quiet crying that she’s valiantly trying to muffle into Cordelia’s shoulder. 

Biting her lip, Cordelia holds her more tightly and silently berates herself for being so utterly… _useless._

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Misty whispers, as her uncontrollable shuddering fades into slight trembles every so often.

At her words, Cordelia pulls back a little, so she can look at her face. 

“Don’t,” she says, perhaps too severely, because Misty’s red-rimmed eyes widen. “I didn’t mean that,” she rectifies hastily. “I just – I don’t want you to ever feel that you have to apologise for this, alright?”

Misty’s lip trembles as she nods. 

Silently, Cordelia strokes her damp hair, pushing it away from her face and fights the stinging of her own eyes as she wracks her brain desperately for what to do.

The last time she’d felt this helpless, she’d been completely blind, and her own husband had been trying to kill her. 

(viii)

The gift of resurgence had been Misty’s entire _life_. Cordelia had never seen it so strong or so developed in any witch she’d ever come across before.

She'd been in complete awe of her from the second they’d met. 

And that’s why she feels foolish for how long it had taken her to realise Misty has been avoiding using her powers since being returned from hell.

Immediately upon returning to the academy, Cordelia had gone to tend to the multitude of drooping plants in need of restoring in the greenhouse.

She hadn’t realised that Misty hadn’t joined her until she’d turned to say something and found the space beside her empty. 

When she’d turned around to look for her, she’d found her hovering right behind her, watching the plant she’d been pruning with what that looked like terror in her eyes. 

The plant had been a little sad looking, with curled and brittle leaves, but Misty had made no move to reach out for it, and Cordelia hadn’t had the heart to broach the subject. 

She’d known why, anyway, deep down.

(Hell takes your worst fears and boils them all down into a singular moment that you’re forced to relive over and over and over again.

Cordelia can’t imagine being forced to spend more than a minute there, let alone years.)

Today though, a particularly droopy potted sage catches Misty’s eye the second they step into the greenhouse together and when she notices her watching it, Cordelia holds her breath, hoping, praying –

Her heart sinks when Misty just stares at it, a plethora of complicated emotions flickering across her face before she seems to shake herself out of it and steps back.

The longing on her face as she gazes at the plant is what makes Cordelia’s decision for her.

“Why don’t you help me today?” she says gently. 

“I – I don’t think so,” Misty says, swallowing visibly. Her eyes are still glued to the sage. “I’m not, I –"

Stomach plummeting with regret, Cordelia puts down her gloves and reaches out to clasp Misty’s now trembling hands, letting both of their heavily ringed-fingers slot together comfortably.

“Misty,” she says, almost tripping over her name in her haste to speak. Misty looks at her and she tries to inject as much sincerity into her voice as possible: “whenever you’re ready.”

(ix)

The concept of happiness had always been something so elusive to her, always within reach -- so close sometimes she’d be able to grasp at it, but it would always end up slipping through her fingers; never quite _hers_ to keep. 

All her life, she’d always wondered why she’d never been able to hold onto anything tangible, why happiness had never wanted to keep her. 

Fiona had abandoned her as a child. 

Myrtle had been burned at the stake for a crime she hadn’t committed, and the only parent Cordelia had ever known had been snatched away from her. 

Her husband had been part of a billion-dollar conspiracy to murder the entire coven and every other witch in existence.

_Hell_ , even the full-bodied antichrist had risen and tried to usurp her from the only meaningful thing she’d ever done in her life. 

She’d been twenty-four when she’d fallen in love with Hank– and yes, she, maybe foolishly, still believes that she did truly love him. 

All the warning signs had been there: the secretive phone calls, the lies she'd caught him out on, the frequent 'business trips'. 

At the end of the day, Cordelia had just wanted someone to want her so badly that she’d been content to ignore it all. 

She thinks, now, that she'd craved the normalcy he represented the most. A doting husband, children, a house with a white picket fence. 

And then they’d all nearly died because of her stupidity. 

_“Typical Delia,”_ she can still remember Fiona sneering at her, after they’d found out about Hank’s less than savory past: _” taking love from anything that’ll offer it. Even if it’s the end of us all._ ”

In spite of how much Cordelia had disliked – _loathed_ \- her mother, Fiona had been right. She’d been reckless and thoughtless, and they’d all nearly paid the ultimate price for it. 

Fiona had been right about Misty, too. 

Impressive on her part, considering that their relationship would have been better likened to that of two strangers rather than that of a mother and daughter.

_(“So…the swamp witch,” she’d said one night, watching her bristle at the nickname with a smirk on her face. “I’m not sure if I should be surprised.”_

_Cordelia remembers she’d bitten down on her tongue until she’d tasted blood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Fiona continued like she hadn’t spoken. “It could be worse, I suppose,” she’d said, exhaling a puff of smoke in her direction. “At least she’s an upgrade from that …thing you married.”_

_“Delighted that I have your approval,” Cordelia recalls herself snapping, before she’d stood and stormed out of the room, leaving her mother silent and smug behind her and herself unsure of why she’d reacted so furiously._

_Fucking Fiona.)_

She can just envision the self-satisfied look on her face about having been proved right as Misty rolls over in her sleep, burying her face in her neck and murmuring something unintelligible. 

(x)

More months pass and still, the world continues to go on even though half of it is missing. 

Slowly, Misty’s nightmares begin to wane. 

One of the houseplants in the kitchen has steadily begun looking more and more deflated over the last week. As its leaves had started to shrivel up and wilt, she’d caught Misty looking at it and then turning away, before looking again, a torn expression on her face. 

She’d ultimately left it alone, but Cordelia had seen a little glimmer of _something_ in her eyes and it made her hopes rise exponentially. 

(She may or may not intentionally forget to water the plant after that. 

She feels awful for doing it, but she can see Misty’s despondency getting worse and worse every time they’re in the greenhouse and she needs to try. 

She just needs to do _something._ ) 

And, to her delight, this morning– still early enough that none of the other girls are awake yet – she watches Misty halt in the middle of the kitchen, biting her lip, before creeping over to the window. 

After a second of hesitation -- a second where Cordelia doesn’t even dare to breathe -- Misty reaches out, stroking a trembling finger over the plants leaves. 

Quiet warmth spreads outwards across the room and it takes a second for her to realise that it’s her magic she can feel. 

In her chest, Cordelia’s heart threatens to burst into a million pieces as the plant blooms back into life under Misty’s fingers, brand new leaves unfurling and spilling out over the edge of the pot. 

“I did it,” Misty turns to her and the smile that spreads across her face is radiant. _“I did it!”_

Smiling, Cordelia opens her mouth, but visibly buzzing with excitement, Misty’s lips crash onto hers before she can get a word out.

“Ugh,” Madison pretends to gag as she strolls into the room, interrupting them with a roll of her eyes. “I’m lit-er-ally gonna hurl.”

Behind her, Zoe shoots them both an apologetic look. 

(xi)

Sometimes, she wonders if it was selfishness that spurred her not to give into papa legba’s demands.

Seven billion people had died because of a single choice she’d made and, still - _still,_ even knowing that, she can't bring herself to regret it because all of her girls will get to live to see another day; they're all going to go on to live long, happy lives rather than being stuck in hell for eternity. 

Cordelia knows she would have readily crucified herself to save the world -- had been ready to do it in an instant -- but how could she have condemned them? 

_How could she have ever have sent Misty back there again?_

She couldn’t have done it. She’d known that – and so had he – from the second he’d opened his mouth and spoken the request.

Still, it doesn’t stop her from torturing herself over it even now, all this time later. 

“--what’s the matter?” 

She flinches as a feather-light touch to her arm breaks her out of the less-than-pleasant reverie she’d been in.

Misty, holding a trowel in one of her hands, gazing at her with clear concern in her eyes, apparently having dropped what she was doing sometime after Cordelia zoned out. 

“It’s nothing,” Cordelia tells her, reaching down to grab the hand on her arm. She runs her thumb over the back of Misty’s hand. “Just thinking.”

Looking a little unconvinced, Misty decides not to push her. After leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, she goes back to what she’d been doing before, peeking at her out of the corner of her eye every so often as she works. 

Content to just observe, Cordelia quietly leans back against one of the stools shoved against the wall. 

Stevie Nicks is singing quietly from the record player in the corner of the room and Misty hums along as she prunes one of the bushier plants.

_It was worth it,_ she thinks, suddenly, as Misty moves onto another plant, a marigold this time, smiling delightedly as the flower shoots up beneath her fingers and blossoms into vibrant shades of yellow and orange. 

The thought rings true.

If nothing else, all of this had been worth it to be able to give Misty her life back. 

(xii)

Throughout her entire life, touch had always had negative consequences. 

A raised fist of her mothers. Seeing the deepest and darkest secrets of everyone she knew at the slightest brush of skin. 

Cordelia had learned very early in life that there was rarely anything gentle about the hands of the people around her. 

People were only as ever as nice as their secrets and no one had _nice_ secrets. 

When she’d had the second sight, there was nothing in the world that could be hidden from her. Every secret, every lie or even slight mistruth was laid out before her like a confessional. 

It had been simultaneously the most exhilarating and depressing experience of her life.

She’d seen her husband’s infidelity. 

She’d seen just how deep her mother’s need to stay supreme ran and how far she would have gone to keep it.

She’d seen Madison’s insecurity, Zoe’s guilt, Queenie’s resentment, Nan’s anger. 

And then there had been Misty. 

Seeing the genuine goodness of her, inside and out, right down to her very soul, had been like a breath of fresh air. 

Cordelia’s sure, now, that she’d fallen in love with her right there on the doorstep of the academy, after she’d seen everything Misty had suffered and her unfailing willingness to still believe that the world was kind.

In those weeks of darkness, she’d been the only person Cordelia had been able to touch without fearing what she might see.

After she’d become the supreme and learned to control how she used the sight, it had still taken months before she’d stopped flinching at skin-to-skin contact.

It had taken her even longer to control the revulsion that filled her when someone so-much-as brushed up against her unexpectedly. Even after years and years, it still never quite faded.

But, now, with Misty beneath her, cheeks flushed as she bites her lip and arches her back and tries valiantly to be quiet, Cordelia suddenly, _desperately,_ remembers what it’s like to want someone else to touch her.

After she recovers enough to be able speak – Cordelia will probably be quite proud of that later, when she thinks about it -- Misty looks up at her, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as she asks her, shyly: “will you show me how --?”

Entire body taught with the anticipation of it, she gently guides Misty's hand to where she wants it and makes her the only person to touch her in years without eliciting nausea in the pit of her stomach. 

 

(xiii)

A year to the day of the end of the world, Cordelia wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside her window. 

It’s the first time she’s heard that sound in more than twelve months.

She opens her eyes and watches as a sparrow flits around outside their bedroom window for a second before it takes off, disappearing into the violet and amber streaked sky.

Misty is awake beside her, watching her through sleepy eyes, both of her hands pillowed under her head. She smiles when she sees Cordelia is awake. 

“Mornin’” she whispers, accent thicker than usual and her voice heavy with sleep. 

For a second, Cordelia’s heart threatens to burst out of her chest with the wave of contentment that flows through her.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever be used to waking up next to her. 

“Morning,” she returns, almost giddily and then, ever-so-carefully, leans over to kiss her, one of her hands coming up to twine in tangled curls. 

There really have been so few times that she’s ever felt that supremacy was a gift, she could probably count all of them on one hand and still have fingers to spare.

Having Misty – _here, alive, in her arms_ \-- is one of them.

Distantly, she can hear the sounds of the others rousing from sleep and beginning to get up.

(Madison complaining as Zoe drags her out of their bedroom, Queenie, Coco and Mallory downstairs talking quietly in the kitchen, Myrtle and Bubbles in the living room.)

Around them, the world somehow still continues to miraculously spin on as it always has.

And -- bit by bit -- Cordelia feels the weight that’s been bearing down on her for so long start to fall away.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was just basically a bunch of stuff I wanted to see this season on ahs this season shoved together lmao. 
> 
> also on Tumblr [here!](http://somnambulants.tumblr.com/post/179745696951/her-face-says-freedom)let me know what u think!


End file.
